For me angling is about
running far, going deep, fishing hard, and catching big. And when my son
Kevin was born last year, I had grand visions of someday taking him to
the canyons and turning him into a big-game madman. But the more I thought
about it, the more I was reminded of how I got my start fishing, and the
vision changed.

When I was young my
grandpa would say, “Let’s go,” and my older brother Chip
and I would sprint across the sand-covered lawn of grandpa’s lagoon-front
South Jersey home with the speed of cheetahs. We’d jump into the
unlocked blue Volare station wagon, which smelled as salty as that lagoon
tasted, and fight for our favorite side. Quietly—the way my grandpa
always spoke—he’d ask us to settle down.

But every time he started
the car, I’d get uncontrollably giddy. He’d look back and, underneath
the thinning gray hair and rough stubble that outlined his lean countenance,
give me a kid-like smile back. He knew I couldn’t help myself. I
was supercharged, and he didn’t mind. These car trips always meant
we were heading to pick up bait, and that meant fishing. And to quote
a line from an online fishing forum I once visited, as far as I was concerned,
fishing wasn’t a matter of life or death, it was much more important
than that.

The car slowly rolled
over the crunching slate-blue, gravel-covered street as we made our way
to Radio Road, a stretch of highway with an apparently infinite string
of powerlines. During the mid-1970’s this area wasn’t developed,
and getting our precious bait required going “an axe handle down
the road,” as my grandma put it. This meant we were in for a long
ride, and although it was actually only about 20 minutes each way, when
you’re five years old, it might as well have been a day.

I could feel my anxiety
build as my grandpa would say, “I’m stopping at the WaWa (a
local convenience store). Do you want something?” I’d incessantly
repeat “WaWa, WaWa, WaWa” as if I was the one hard of hearing.
He’d slowly stop the car and then get out to get his coffee, slyly
adding, “I guess that means no?” Of course that was our cue
to jump out and get a Tastykake cupcake and a container of milk. It was
his treat—after all, my allowance was about a quarter a week.

After WaWa, we’d
drive by what seemed like a few thousand more powerlines to the bait store.
Once there, I’d look into the freezer at the silver-sided fish and
yell out “Spearing! Spearing! Spearing!” with even more emphasis
and repetition than “WaWa,” before the store’s owner could
get to the counter. Grandpa would say, “I guess we’ll take the
spearing.” The owner would always hand it to me because he either
figured it was the only way to shut me up and get me out, or he appreciated
my enthusiasm for playing with frozen bait. I’d like to think it
was his reciprocal affection for dead frozen fish.